The Lady Is a Thief (6 page)

 
   
“Miles told you I'm here as a…”

 
   
“Seriously, Mr. Parker?
A stud service.
Yes, my father sent you to stand stud
for his recalcitrant princess who will not settle down. Granted, you're an
exceptionally fine specimen, but I have no desire to wear the reins that go
with that promising physique.”

 
   
Jarod’s mouth opened briefly and then
snapped shut. To her amazement—and ire—he started to laugh.

 
   
“What's so funny?”

 
   
“You're not mad that your father might have
sent me, Kit Kat. You're mad that you wanted me and now you think you can't
have me.”

 
   
She sat up straighter in the chair,
aggravation dragging its nails across the chalkboard of her spine. “I am glad I
amuse you…” She tossed her napkin onto the plate, all pretense of appetite
gone. Standing, she gave him a practiced look of dismissal. “Good evening, Mr.
Parker. I expect you off my plane as soon as we land in Los Angeles.”

 
   
Two steps away from the table he caught her
arm and spun her back. She impacted against his chest and her hands flattened
against a very hard, very well developed set of pectoral muscles, his mouth just
an inch from her own. “If I'm standing stud, you should at least sample the
services before you dismiss them.”

 
   
She wasn't sure which of them moved, but
suddenly their mouths fused together and the heat inside of her burst into a
raging forest fire. His tongue stabbed against hers, demanding and gaining
access. His hand slid up to her still damp hair and sometime between the first
caress of his tongue and the flood of want between her thighs, he released the
ponytail.

 
   
The world spun, as if the private jet
performed aerial acrobatics. She clung to him, fighting the waves of sensuous
dizziness that swarmed over her and devoured every shred of common sense that
shrieked at her to let him go.

 
   
Who started the kiss might have been a
mystery, but Jarod pulled back. He stared down at her with those deep amber
eyes and smiled. “By the way, Kit Kat—Daddy didn't send me. You sleep well
tonight.”

 
   
He let her go and returned to the table. He
picked up his fork and knife as if nothing happened and dug into the meal. Her
body sizzled and the taste of him on her lips far more tantalizing than the
food.

 
   
Exhaling a hard breath, she turned on her
heel and marched back to the door separating the bedroom from the cabin.

 
   
“Oh,” his voice chased her. “I think that's
two points for me.”

 
   
Damn.

 
   
She shut the door and leaned back against
it. Her pulse raced, her body trembled, and her mind quivered.

 
   
He was
ahead.

 
   
H
e
finished the glass of wine and stared at the thin door standing between him and
his goal. Before the stewardesses could clear the table, he wiped down the
glass and the silver wear. Old habits that saved his ass so many times in the
past remained difficult to avoid. He accepted the offer of coffee and the
stewardesses left him with a carafe, a cup, and fresh creamer. They retreated
to the front and what he imagined was their station during the flight when not
needed.

 
   
An hour after their explosive kiss and her
retreat to the bedroom, Jarod accepted she didn't intend to join him anytime
soon. He itched to search the cabin, but it would be an exercise in futility.
If she carried the Buddha personally, the priceless artifact would be in the
bedroom. Retrieving his laptop, he booted up and began a casual web search of
Lord Hardwicke and his impetuous daughter. He knew a great deal about Kit
Kat—his thorough research uncovering several warnings from the
Bridgerton
Boarding Academy in Switzerland.

 
   
Katherine Hardwicke possessed a remarkable
intellect. Several of her instructors remarked upon the difficulty of keeping
the young woman engaged—and on campus. Most of the sealed records required
hacking to access, but IAAR background checks remained thorough. The
Hardwickes
and the
Sauvages
shared a long acquaintance. His Kit Kat seemed linked to
Pietr
or Max on several occasions via newspaper speculation but—adept at reading
between the lines—all Jarod found was speculation. Her romantic liaisons seemed
far and few between.

 
   
At sixteen, she began appearing at her
father's business functions as his hostess. At eighteen, a noticeable
three-month absence in reports of her activities intrigued him—a second absence
at twenty and a third one lasting nearly nine months in the year after she
completed university. He would have to put a researcher on that in the morning
when they landed in Los Angeles.

 
   
At twenty-nine, she had never been engaged
nor linked romantically with any one man for longer than three months. And in spite
of the rampant speculation about her affairs, no photographs or reports of in
depth emotional investment appeared. The lack of it more telling than all the
implied assignations ascribed to the Lady Hardwicke.

 
   
Pouring another cup of coffee, he studied
the closed door as though it might reveal prize clues about the woman hiding
behind it.
Definitely hiding.
He wasn't too proud to
admit that the electric sizzle of their kiss lingered beneath his skin nor was
he ashamed of the raw desire to push up that cotton tank top and explore the
curves beneath her pajamas.

 
   
His mouth quirked.
He loved the pajamas. For thirty seconds, he'd seen the real Kit Kat. The
freshly scrubbed, hair still damp from the shower woman with all her
complicated barriers set aside when she padded barefoot out of the cabin.

 
   
Thirty seconds to appreciate the
fist
of need to his gut. No matter how much he told himself
this was purely about business, those precious seconds gave him a glimpse of
the woman beneath the polished answers and smooth handling. He saw Kit Kat.

 
   
And that was exactly who he kissed. Dragging
his attention away from the door, he scrolled through the various news
articles, columns, and features. He skimmed the headlines. The phone in his
pocket buzzed and he pulled it out while he mulled what pieces of information
were missing.

 
   
Two sentence incoming text from an asset in
Geneva;
duMonde
boarded a flight for the United States.
Destination Los Angeles.

 
   
He tapped out one question and hit send.
Eta?

 
   
Swift response.
Flight scheduled to arrive at midnight,
Pacific Time.

 
   
Midnight.

 
   
Jarod didn't believe in coincidence.
duMonde
was a borderline
psychopath with delusions of grandeur and a definite narcissistic streak. His
arrival in Los Angeles ahead of Kit disturbed him to say the least. Was she on
her way to meet him?

 
   
Or had he, like Jarod, put the pieces
together?

 
   
duMonde's
obsession with the Buddha led to his alleged involvement in at least three
deaths in New York—and the near murder of
Pietr
Sauvage
and Jarod's most recently acquired asset to the
IAAR, Sophie Kingston. Anya had a history with the French collector, one she
didn't enjoy relating in her reports, but manipulating the Viscount to gain
access to some collections proved fruitful until his unbalanced possessive
streak reared its head.

 
   
duMonde
arriving LAX, midnight local time. Follow
him.
Fortunately, a network of worldwide assets provided him with
immeasurable resources. Kit didn't need to spend any time with that lunatic.
The tough, resourceful front she exuded to the world wouldn't keep her safe.

 
   
Thumbing the phone off, he didn't examine
his motivations too closely. Her complicity in the theft of
The Fortunate Buddha
did not warrant
leaving her to
duMonde's
less than tender mercies.
Empty coffee pot and they were two hours from LA. The laptop screen darkened as
the energy saving feature kicked in.

 
   
The Frenchman's Los Angeles trip could be
completely unrelated, but added a new wrinkle to the timetable. He couldn't
afford to alienate Kit Kat further, not if he wanted to stay close enough to
protect her.
What am I not seeing in all
of this?

 
   
A key piece of data eluded him; some fact
that would tie together disparate pieces of information in his
possession—something that might explain Kit Kat's involvement. A woman with her
level of wealth didn't dabble in stolen goods unless to purchase them. But she
wasn't buying or selling the Buddha. Nothing hit IAAR's radar about an auction.
Granted, the network of art fences in the world remained relatively small, but
an item like the Buddha made ripples—it was how they traced them.

 
   
So what was it? What element was out of
context with the rest?

 
   
Born in London, Lady Hardwicke grew up in a
life of wealth and privilege. Despite modernization, British nobility still
lived a step or two beyond the average British subject. They lived by a code of
rules and propriety with greater allowance for flaws and eccentricities. A
private school education included four years at university studying business,
management, and finance. The vanilla nature of her degree did not match the
seductively, provocative woman. Hardwicke Industries maintained investments in
a dozen corporations worldwide. Lord Hardwicke sat on as many more boards of
directors. Kit Kat assumed many of the day-to-day operational meetings in the
last three years, increasing her already frequent travel schedule to a new
country nearly every month.

 
   
She and her father seemed very close, but
they hadn't been at the same event, or even in the same country, in months. No
rumors or reports of an illness for Lord Hardwicke explained the discrepancy.

 
   
Wait a
minute.
He hit the spacebar on the laptop and skimmed through the headlines
again.
Where the hell is her mother?

 
   
T
he
buzzing of the phone roused her from sleep. She blinked at the nightstand
clock. It read 3:00 a.m.
Plucking
the phone from the
wall cradle, she tried to rub the drowsiness from her eyes. “Yes?”

 
   
“I'm sorry to wake you, Lady Hardwicke.
We're about an hour out and will be beginning our descent shortly. You need to
move to a seat belted position.” The Captain's calm apology and directness
pushed the fog of fatigue away.

 
   
“Thank you, Captain. I'll be going back to
bed after we land.” She hung up and dragged herself out of the tangle of
sheets. The twisted bed covers spoke more to her restlessness than she
imagined. Padding to the loo, the knock at the door surprised her.

 
   
Jarod.

 
   
For a few precious seconds, she'd forgotten
the stowaway on board. The unpleasant jolt knocked more adrenaline into her
system. She didn't open the door. “Yes?”

 
   
“The Captain just called back to say we'll
be landing soon.” Silence followed the statement and then, “I didn't want it to
surprise you.”

 
   
“He called me, Mr. Parker. You should pack
your things and take your seat. As soon as we land, and can taxi to a gate,
feel free to deplane.” She yawned, and rubbed a hand against her face. “In
fact, I insist.”

 
   
She didn't wait for a response but walked
into the loo and took care of business. Ten minutes later, she sat down on the
flight chair in the room and buckled her seatbelt. She could have walked out
into the main cabin and dozed in one of the more comfortable seats, but this
one provided more privacy.